Alteration
by Oedipus Tex
Summary: ONESHOT “I have become aware of the First Fate.” Dilandau has realized that he shares his fate with Cerene. Whenever Cerene exists, he doesn’t. He plans to do something about this, and if a few people get hurt along the way, then so much the better.


_**Disclaimer:** I do not own Escaflowne, nor am I making any profit off this bit of entertainment. Escaflowne belongs to some folks in Japan, give your money to them. Certain original characters contained within this story do belong to me, but I doubt anyone really cares. :-)_

Alteration 

I have become aware of the First Fate. She is the one that is, when I am not; and she is not, when I am, because he is there, telling her to come back. "Cerene, Cerene. Come back!" I hate the First Fate! I hate him too, Allen Schezar. I hate him more than I ever have because he wants me not to be. He would rather have First Fate be, than me. No, no. They cannot keep me away. They cannot keep me from being—

…

The spans of time between when I am, and when I am not, can be great. They can be short or great, but more often, they are great. I am marked by interludes of time when I am not. Sometimes it is day—then it is night. I remember when it was summer, and when the trees were green-headed with leaves, and the sun shone a giant fire yellow, and the Mystic Moon was a white blot. Now, now that I am again, the trees look sick, yellow spots on the places where the green is. They have yellow fever! It makes me laugh to think so.

I sit on the ground, outside the house where First Fate and Allen Schezar live. A flouncy skirt covers my legs. He is here, standing with his back to me. Good, good! If he had seen me, he would have called her.

Ahead of me, away away, a snake has bitten the head off a mouse. I see the sick, fading trees. My laughter gives me away because he turns around and leaps in rage when he sees me.

"Hello," I say. I do not move. I want him to know something. I smile (what a devilish smile I know it is!) because I have figured him out. I know the secret. I know the truth of First Fate. "Hello, Allen Schezar."

"Dilandau," he growls. His blonde hair seems longer now, hanging down to where he keeps his fists. He opens his fists, raises them, palms up, trying to be nice. I resist snapping at him. I wish I could burn his hair off! "Cerene—"

No, no! I will not let him! I put my hands over my ears so First Fate will not hear. In the small, dark space where First and Second are, First will hear. I will not let her!

"Stop!" I scream, crushing my ears. "I can't hear you!" It's a lie, because I can still hear his voice, even through my hands. My bare arm—so embarrassing to be in a woman's clothes!—touches my cheek, and I feel my scar. I think of Van Fanel. I hate him too!

"Cerene, Cerene!" Allen is desperate. I have never seen him so scared. He approaches slowly, halting and jerking and propelling his feet forward where they refuse to go. I laugh at him. What a scared man. How he hates me!

"Stop it!" I scramble to my feet, slipping once on the drippy grass, my hands still on my ears. Away away, the snake has swallowed the mouse, and a long, wormy, rodenty tail hangs out between the snake's jaws. The snake slurps it up. _Slleeuup_. I laugh at this, I laugh at the sick trees, I laugh at Allen. I laugh because I am.

Poor scared Allen. He is surprised. I talk to him, even with my hands over my ears. "Stop it. I can't hear you," I say. He is quiet, closes the hole in his face. I lower my hands, carefully, because I know he will quickly try again. He will try to trick me. Trickster Allen. "I am, Allen Schezar," I tell him. "You can't keep me away. You can try, but I won't let you." I step back.

He spits it out, too quickly for me to block it. I told you he would trick me, didn't I?

"Cerene, come back!"—

…

The next time that I am, I am in First Fate's bedroom, lying on her bed. My face is in her pillow, and it is a poofy bed, trimmed in lace and chenille, soft beneath my toes, just as you'd expect. I raise my face and run my hand against my cheeks. They are wet. I taste my fingers, making sure I am. They taste salty. I stay calm and inspect the room.

Such a girl's room. Dark woody floors on the floor, and pink curtains at the window, and yellow cloth, and wardrobe of dresses. I wear a dress now. A white dress. Disgusting.

I look again at the window and grin to myself. I will trick _him_ this time. He will not trick me; no, I will be the one doing the tricking. I will stay calm and I will very quietly, silently, slip out the window.

First, I must do something. I slip carefully off the bed and creep to the wardrobe. First Fate must have something tasteful to wear. She must! I will not runaway—be—out there, without something tasteful to wear.

A thought strikes me, and I have to shove the heel of my thumb into my mouth to keep my laughter silent. He always hears my laughter, you see. But I think about how once I am gone with this place, I will come back in my Guymelef and crush it. I will break Allen Schezar's body beneath its feet. I will squeeze his head flat and his hair will be bloody, will drip with blood, and my Guymelef will become redder. And then I will move onto Fanelia, where Van has put away Escaflowne, and I will smush him there too. I will undo all that he has done; I will remake what he has unmade. I will pluck him like a chicken. And First Fate will never be again.

Ah, I find decent clothes. I throw the dress away, onto the floor, and look at it, stare at it, as I put on my decent clothes: a white shirt—I tear the rippling ripples of lace from it—and riding pants. Then, I cannot help it. I hate it! I fall to the floor, grab the dress, and tear through it. I rip the lace off the sleeves, bite the buttons off and spit them out. I jump up and down on it, and kick it across the room. It floats up and falls down, and looks like a dancing lady. I see a lit candle. The wind from the open window gently brushes the flame, making it live. I lick my lips.

Fire…fire is hungry, always hungry, always devours. Air and fuel make fire. Fire is brilliant and orange, and beautiful because it can never die. It can be snuffed out but it always comes back, when it has food to eat. It eats and eats. And dresses are food for fire.

The smell of burning seeps into my nose, like an old memory. I cannot help it. If only they would let me be!

I realize too late. The smell, the smell! He is knocking on the door, shouting, "Cerene, is everything all right in there? Cerene, open the door."

I tramp the fire out, singeing my hands. The white dress falls, burnt, black spots on it. Panic tries to choke me but I run my hands along my throat, pushing it back down. I run to the window and lift the pane. Behind me, the door is shaking. "Cerene. Cerene! Cerene, answer me. Cerene, open the door!" I hurry. I put a foot over the sill. I have forgotten to put shoes on and chilled air kisses my sole.

The door opens. Allen darts in, his face blinding like the sun. I smirk at him over my shoulder and jump. I am surprised. The ground below is so far! Farther than I thought. Panic does choke me now, because I will die. The wind rushes by, howling. First Fate and Second Fate will be no more.

I jerk up, stop falling. Hands are on my hand. I thump against the side of the house, but I am stopped from falling. I try clawing back up into the house, with my free hand and my feet. I hear his voice, yelling, "I got you, Cerene." I don't care what he calls me at this point, only let him pull me up!

He pulls slowly—too slow! My wrist hurts me badly but I don't care. I run hand and feet against the side, trying to dig into the wood and stone with my nails, like a cat. I even bite the siding, if it would only hold me! There are splinters in my fingers. I feel them moving in, crawling in, underneath my nails. Warm wetness creeps down my palm. But he keeps pulling me up. My entire arm is angry with me now, but he keeps pulling me up. I feel an edge with my fingers, and I pull up with my other hand, over the windowsill. Pulling, pulling, p-u-l-l-i-n-g. His hands are on my back, tugging me up by my clothes. There is cool air on my back. I fall into the room.

He has forgotten that it is me, Dilandau, Second Fate. He puts his arms around me, around my shoulders, and quivers. He squishes my face into his shoulder. I wriggle against him. The anger in my belly outgrows me. I push him off and bring my fist against his head. It makes a satisfying clunk, a liquid sloshing sound. He falls to the floor, groaning. I crawl over him, making for the door. I swing the door open and look back over my shoulder at Allen. Bloody palm prints on the floor, lead away from him to me. He is following them, scrambling onto his feet. He points his teeth at me, snarling.

My heart thumps once, reminding me to run. I topple out for the staircase, sliding against the floor gone slick with my blood. Then I am slammed against the floor and a weight presses atop me, squishes me, and another stronger one presses into my back. I scream and spin underneath the weight, clawing out. He sits on my stomach and grabs my arms. I get them free once and go for his eyes, but he grabs them again before I can hurt him. He pins my arms down underneath his knees, onto the floor, and digs deep. I scream in helpless frustration and toss my head side to side because it's the only thing I can do.

He gapes his mouth. I bang my head against the floor so I won't hear. My brain crashes against my skull, but I do not stop because every thud hides another word. Allen puts his hands on my head, holding it still. I scream, to mask the words. Tears poison my temples. They burn, enflame my head.

"Get off me! Get off me!"

"Cerene! Cerene, come back!"

"No! No, let me be. Let me be!"

He is crying too. I want to laugh at him, but it is too hard to.

"I won't let you get rid of me," I yell.

His hands tighten around my ears. His voice is steady in them. "Cerene, come back to me."

I gasp. I can feel her coming. I feel it in my bones: the alteration, the altering. The First Fate. The changing.

I try screaming louder, sobbing louder, but his voice is so strong—

…

When I am again, I am angry with myself. I am very angry because I am in her room again, and there are bars on her windows. I look through them, at the hills pacing away into purple mounds, mounds like ash heaps, and at the green spikes of grass coming through yellow mats. Spring is come.

I turn away from the window, glad. I put my hands on my hips, glad. Spring is come. I am like the spring. Like the salamander. Or better yet, newly reborn, like the phoenix. No need to be angry with myself. Oh, but I am angry with myself, because I ruined my last chance at mistake. If only I had thought to look before I leapt, to judge the height of the window, to have made a rope…perhaps of these hideous dresses I keep ending up in. But instead, I let my feelings take over me, and I let myself do foolish, destructive things.

I see a fly. There is a spider web in the corner, and the fly buzzes in it. He struggles and moves and shakes and twists, but against the terrible trap his efforts are fruitless because he only wraps himself further and deeper into doom. A brown spider, legs spread daintily and creepily beneath it, and out, dances across the web. How can a fly, with only six legs, fight against a spider? Fours legs forward, four legs backward, always moving ahead. One leg here, one leg there, one leg upon that, one leg upon this, one leg lower, one leg upper, one leg over, one leg under.

I look away and sit my legs (I only have two of them), leaning against the bed. I will not be foolish this time. I have another plan for escape. It involves getting into the kitchen and finding a knife.

I take my shoes off—oh, to be sneaky, I can be sneaky too—and rise slowly. I stand in front of the vanity mirror, holding my hands out from my sides, considering my face and the clothes I wear. I am happy of the dress this time. It will, hopefully, help me this time.

I move silently across the floor and very quietly open the door. I peer out, down the stairs. I hear nothing within the house. Very good. I step out, lightly, and down the steps I descend, on my toes, making no more noise than a mouse. Every sense is awake. I hear nothing. I look around the corners and see no one. I wonder where the kitchen is.

I am forced to wander the house, jumping at shadows. This house makes my skin creep. Books and old things, windows that open out into yards, tall pillars, smells of dust. Flowers, in anything that has a hole for one. I almost laugh out loud, thinking that it is Allen that spreads these flowers around. I don't know the names of flowers, but there are white ones and yellow ones and red ones and pink ones and blue ones and purple ones, but no green ones. The petals fall onto the dark wooded floor and the floorboards creak as I glide across it. Everything is so very woody about this house. Dusty and old and made of memories that aren't mine but are hers instead.

I find the kitchen. I become excited and hasty. I forget to be sneaky and dash in, flinging the door open. All around, cabinets and tables, and stove and sink, and larder and other things too. But it is the cabinets (full of promises) that I am interested in. I stop first, because I cannot help myself, and shove a plum into my mouth. Of all the times that I have been, I have not tasted food. It is good. Then I throw open drawers, tossing things out of them when they do not give me what I want. I nearly growl in the not finding of what I seek. I look around—at the ceiling, the floor, the walls, the window. There is a block sitting on the counter, black handles sticking from it. A cache! Aha! I grin and go to it.

I pull out one knife—no no, too short, no no. I pull another—not sharp. Another—too short again! Another—ah! Long enough, sharp enough, sharp enough to cut into flesh and spread blood. The edge gleams.

Snickering, I lean against the counter and raise the knife and place it against my ear. I put the point just underneath the lobe, and with my other hand, I stretch my ear taut. I do not fear, even if it will hurt badly. I don't care, I don't care! I know that it will hurt badly, but it is _my_ choice! I will shut my ears and his entreaties to First Fate—"Cerene, Cerene, come back!"—will be blocked. They will fall on deaf ears. First Fate will not come back and I will be.

The door behind me opens. I freeze.

"Cerene?" Allen asked. "What are you…"

Ah, he is trying to trick me again! I whip around and face him, still shoving the knife up against my ear. I press back against the counter, snarling.

He is scared again. He stands still, wavering back and forth, like he's unsure whether to move forward or retreat. Allen raises his hand and tries to be stern with me but I can see the truth. His hand is shaking. "Dilandau, put it down."

"No! I won't let her be anymore."

"Dilandau, put it down. Don't—"

I cut in. He screams and is upon me, knocking the knife away. I yell and feel for my ear. It is still fine—only one little cut. He stopped me! I dive for the knife, rush past him, and again he is on me, shoving me against the counter. We slip to the floor and he sits on my legs and presses me against the cabinet with his forearm. I claw at him, wiggle and shake, tossing back and forth, shiver. His breath is in my ear, always always.

"Cerene, come back. Cerene, come back to me!"

"No, no!"

"Cerene!"

"No, I won't let—

…

The spider, the snake. The mouse, the fly. Allen and Allen Schezar—

…

Coming back…it is like blinking your eyes and opening them again to find yourself in another place, in another time, what you had no conception of before. The alteration: you stand in front of the mirror and blink! You are older. Instant. No time between one place and the next, between one time and the next, yet time has passed. Candles are melted, the season has changed. I am quiet during the first few minutes, because I am disoriented. Strange, suddenly finding yourself someplace different. So I am quiet. Sometimes, this is long enough for Allen Schezar to see me and to say, "Cerene—

…

When I am again, I am on the stairs, standing still and listening. I hear voices coming from further away, from a room further away, where I cannot see. It is Allen Schezar's voice and another voice that I do not know.

I lower myself to my hands and sneak down the stairs, careful of creaking. I wear a horrendous green dress, with a long green skirt, and it hangs over my feet, falling down beneath them, so that I must be extra careful not to trip on it and tumble down the steps. I reach the near the bottom and stop just before I actually do. Two walls are to either side of me, and I carefully place just the barest edge of my eye past the wall, so that I can see into where the voices are. I wince once and feel my ear. It is still hurt; not much time has passed this time.

I see into the sitting room, where the men of the voices are. Allen Schezar sits at a chair, in profile to me, his hair glowing like liquid gold and the sun in the window shining a light around his head. The sun is lowering, turning the sky aflame. His face is black. Long shadows creep across the floor towards me. I must flee from them; they are deep and black, coming to swallow me. But I resist this urge, to see whom Allen speaks to. I cannot see whom Allen speaks to.

"It's becoming more frequent now," Allen says. "He's becoming more violent—this is getting ridiculous!"

"You say that he has become aware of the situation?" the voice asks. The voice is deep, but strained, like the person speaking cannot really speak at all. Heavy breathing in the interlude.

"Yes," Allen growls. "He keeps trying to prevent Cerene—"

The man of the strange voice moves into my view. I pull my head back in, heart running away from me. It is a sorcerer! A sorcerer…so Allen Schezar has lowered himself into using a sorcerer in order to stop me? I gnash my teeth, but put hands over my mouth to remain silent. They dare go so far? They think they can keep me away? They think they can? Do they? Do they?

Ha ha! It is good to see the lowly depths glowing men creep too.

I stay motionless, my hands over my mouth, listening. There is a cricket crawling across the floor. It is a red cricket, blood red, until any cricket I have seen before. Its antenna point back and forth, wave and prod, poke along the air and sniff it. His two back legs are extra long and reach above his back. He steps over the lines of the wood grain, deliberately. I almost laugh. He is afraid of breaking his mother's back? But he doesn't have a mother!

They are talking about me.

"The instability has increased," the sorcerer says. "This is why Dilandau keeps coming back with great frequency."

Allen's voice is put far back into the back of his throat, and the disgust drips off every words. "But why? And why the mental instability? And why now? He's crazier every time—"

"His consciousness of the situation is the cause of this. Because he has become aware—and she as well."

The spider, the snake. The mouse, the fly. Allen and Allen Schezar….

"He naturally wishes to remain," the sorcerer continues, swifting along in his long, black sorcerer's robes. It covers his feet. "His desperation to remain has lead to mental breakdown. Can you only imagine what it must be like?" The sorcerer sounds pleased.

Allen snarls and there is a pounding sound, of fist against fist. Or maybe fist against table. Several things tinkle and jinkle. Allen snaps his voice. "This is hell. Sorcerers did this—I want this fixed. This is unfair to everyone involved."

The sorcerer breathes slowly and deeply. He sounds like a wind through a pass. He says, "This can be mended, of course. The Fate Alteration Machine alters the fate towards a new one. The Fate Nullification Device suppresses, or nullifies, one fate over the other, so that one fate is primary. It is, simply put, the reverse of the Fate Alteration. It is a new machine. It is a simple, very small machine. It can be carried anywhere. One hour to set up, another to do the job. And when we are finished, the nullification of one fate will be complete."

"Is that so? This is what you did before, to her? To end up with this mess?"

The sorcerer remains calm. "No. I did not work on the project myself, so I cannot say with an absolute certainty what happened with your sister, but as I mentioned before, the Fate Nullification Device is a new advance. Recent, very recent. This machine fixes the flaws of the other. It does not alter fate, but destroys fate. I hope you understand me."

I wrap my arms around my knees and lower my head, breathing deeply. I struggle to control the panic that comes to me. They mean to completely get rid of me? But…but there is always more than one fate. Where one fate exists, there can be no other; but there is always more than one fate! They can't get rid of me. They can't, they can't! I won't let them—they can't!

I lean my head against the side of the wall of the staircase. I want to bang it, but instead I lay it very gently against the side and listen. I listen to their plots. I can be tricky too.

"It will completely nullify Dilandau. Erase him," Allen mutters. He doesn't sound happy. I scowl. Why? Why? I know he hates me, so why?

"Yes. We cannot just use the machine whenever we wish, on whomever we wish, however," the sorcerer explains. "We must use it only on the fate that we wish to nullify."

"On him then."

"Yes."

Allen is doubtful, I can tell. Doubting doubting Allen Schezar. "He is extremely violent. I don't see how we can get him near the machine—"

The sorcerer clears his throat. The shadows draw closer. The cricket has gone. "This is the biggest difficulty. We must pacify him. And we must make it so the nullification of the fate can still be allowed. And then, we can snuff him out."

The pair is silent. I open my ears wide. But rage, furious furious rage, bubbles out of my stomach and nearly out between my lips. It rises like vomit in my throat and threatens to spill. I swallow it back down, and it burns, but I ignore it. My hands are shaking…my knees too. How dare they? How dare they? They are moving. I pause.

"I don't like it," Allen mutters. "I don't like this plan at all. There must be another way…."

"If you can think of a better way, then you may let me know." The sorcerer clears his throat again, humming like an appliance. "Where is your sister, by the way?"

I climb back up the stairs, backwards on my hands and feet, creeping like the red cricket had crept. But silent, ever so silently. But quickly too. Flying.

More movement. Allen says, "Up in her room."

"Can we be certain?"

I slide myself back in through the door and shut it softly. I slip across the floor of First Fate's bedroom, towards her bed, and crawl in between the bed sheets, throwing a blanket over my head. I lie very still and wait.

There is a soft knock on the door. I shove my fingers into my ears so that I will not hear his voice. Another moment later, and I feel a touch on my shoulder. His hand on my shoulder, and is saying, gently, "Cerene?"

I cannot breathe! The blanket cuts my air. The terror of my lungs won't go! I am breathing heavy—I try to slow it. Slow it, slow it. It won't slow. He will hear, he will hear me. And if he does, I will kill him! I will leap from this bed and kill him, because he wants to kill me. Why won't he let me be?

He doesn't lift the blanket. He fades away and the door shuts. I wait. I can breathe again. I hear their voices outside the door. "She is asleep," Allen says. I come close to die of laughing. So he thought I was asleep? And that I was First? Fool!

The footsteps quiet quiet, head away away. I lower the blanket, inhaling fresh air. It smells like flowers and dust too. I sit up on the bed, lean back against the headrest, and consider. I must think deep, to trick them before they trick me. They want to kill me? I won't let them!

I must think coolly, before making my move. All my previous steps failed because I was hasty. Not this time, no indeed. First, I must think of what makes me overcome First Fate. Always always, I am thinking of the spider, the snake, the mouse, the fly, Allen, and Allen Schezar…. They echo and reecho in my memory. They are key.

Before I was aware of First Fate, I would be, and was so confused and scared. Blink. In front of Allen Schezar, in some place or another. "Where am I?" I asked. But I know better now. But why did those times make me be, instead of First?—

…

The spider, the snake. The mouse, the fly. Allen and Allen Schezar—

…

Often, when I am coming, and in that small, dark space where there is neither First Fate nor Second Fate, I hear words. His words. Angry words, upset words, sad words, harsh words, mean words. I hear those words, and then it is me—

…

If only First Fate would get angrier more often!—

…

Still, he keeps me from being. He is always near, and the moment I am, he rushes in, hastens out, "Cerene!"—

…

The snake and the mouse. The spider and the fly. Allen and Allen Schezar…. I have added another: the sorcerer.

The snake eating the mouse! The spider eating the fly! The sorcerer, trying to eat me! Emotional distress, shock, pain. First Fate is a gentle creature, is she?

This allows me to think and reflect calmly. This lets me know what I have always known, in my bones: I will come back again. I have devised a plan to remain. First Fate always comes, when his voice says, "Come, Cerene, come." Anger and violence and fear are my emancipators. There is only one Allen Schezar, but the world is filled with anger and violence and pain. First Fate will die with the death of that voice, that face. Allen Schezar. I must let myself be violent and cross. I will burn, burn this place into a dust cloud of ash! I will burn this place the way I burned Fanelia. My old friend, fire, will let me be.

And then I will move on, and I will make me a soft feather-down pillow to place my head.

I will pretend that I am nice, if he is there. When First Fate is frightened, or enraged, and I come, I will be nice. Such a nice boy, not at all mad. If I must, I will hide my face from him, pretending to be First Fate. And then I will burn the house. They have a terrible weapon—but I have a weapon too. I lick my lips, thinking of it—

…

I realize, now, that they will _want_ be to be. No no! I won't let them take me this way. I will force them to call First Fate, until my time comes. Until the time when I am able to kill them in their beds, make them into smoke. Until they will float away, and First Fate with them—

…

I am, and am not, several more times before I have my chance. When I come again, I see that it is finally time. I am alone in her room, sitting at the vanity, tears on my face. They hurt me. What a weak creature she is! I wipe the tears away and stand to dress into something more suitable. Always a dress! But I first stop to look at myself in the mirror.

I am older now, I think. Blink blink, the years fall away. I am older; the lines have matured. More a man, less a boy. Yes, I have aged.

I weaken and lower my head against the tabletop. I feel more tears now, wanting to leak out, not hers this time. I have lost many years. And I am very tired. Tired of this existence.

I bolt back up, scrubbing away the weakness. I laugh at myself, softly. "Don't cry!" I tell myself, in a singsong voice. "Soon, you will have all the years you ever need! And Allen Schezar…." I grimace and turn away at the thought of that man. He makes me quite angry. But I will win over him!

I go to the wardrobe and fling the doors open, searching out for suitable clothing for Dilandau, Second Fate. Soon, the only fate. Except….

I brush away any stray thoughts, and I find shirts and riding pants and toss them into the crook of my arm (what, I wonder, is so bad about the place where your arm bends?). I cannot wear them yet; I am pretending to be First Fate, remember? So I put the clothes over my arm, pick the candle up, and walk out the door just as you please. Just as I please. Just as if I was king here. Or queen, I must pretend, perhaps.

I glide gently down the stairs, listening. The house is dark and the windows are black. Trees stand like dark shadows outside, things with clawing, grasping fingers: grim reapers, coming to make their claim. There are no stars. It will make it all so much easier. When I light this place up, it will be a glorious light, and all Gaea will see it in the darkness of this night!

I cover the flame with my hand—I must protect it, you know, for it is my protector—and walk into the kitchen. There is food spread on the counters. Fruits and nuts and cooked things, like breads and steaming stuff. Cheeses. Wine. This discomposes me a moment but I shrug it off. No matter. More things for the fire to eat. I pop a grape into my mouth and it explodes therein, splashing juice onto my tongue. I grin and put the candle down, and start searching the cabinets. I don't care about knives this time. No, I am searching for something else.

I find what I need in the corner. Fire starter, things to start a fire in the stove, thing that burns in a lamp. Thing that burns easily, to heat the wood. Cloth, soaked in an oil that will burn hot. Fuel. And this house is nothing but fuel. Woody woody fuel, it will burn easily. I will burn them in their beds. Blackened husks, the sorcerer and Allen will be.

Before I get to it though, Allen walks in, looking at me gravely. Glaring and mad. Enraged. I growl at him and dash for the things that make fire. He grabs me and throws me to the ground. I fight with him, bolting back off the floor, and go for his throat. I will kill him with my bare hands! Allen Schezar.

He slaps me. I gasp and fall back against the floor, clutching my cut ear, where his fingers had brushed. A slap! A slap? A slap! It stuns me. I snarl at him, running my feet against the tile. I slip back across the floor until I run against the cabinetry, still holding my face. It stings.

He rises to his feet, brushing himself off with composure. He clears his throat and says, "Dilandau, stop."

Tears pierce my eyes. Cannot I ever free myself? Why am I so helpless?

"Dilandau—"

"No, I cannot hear you!" I scream, holding my ears shut. It hurts my hurt ear to do so and I press deeper, until the pain makes blank edges of my vision. But I don't care: I just want to live! "No, no! I can't hear you."

He is on me, wrenching my hands away from my face. I wallow and lurch underneath him, trying to get my hands back, but he clutches so tight. I snap at him and kick out at him, and he shakes me. He beats the back of my head against the cabinet. I cry out and lay still, because the blank edges of my vision are becoming more than edges. "I can't hear you, I can't hear you," I murmur.

"Dilandau. Dilandau," he says, holding my wrists.

"No. Just let me be. Let me live." I realize what he is calling me: not Cerene, not First Fate, but me, Dilandau. The fear comes to me. I shy away from him, my vision still dark, my head still broken. I shake my face. Yes, they want me to be Dilandau so that they might nullify me. I remember my plan.

I smile at Allen and coo, "No, no. Not Dilandau. Cerene, remember? I am Cerene."

He pauses, looks shaken. I don't think he expected it. He tightens his hold on my wrists.

"Yes, yes. Just Cerene. Not Dilandau."

"Stop it, Dilandau. It is you, I know it is."

"No no, silly man."

Allen lowers his eyelids in contempt. "Dilandau, Cerene has blue eyes."

I catch my breath. I start shaking to pieces. Is every plan to fail me; is every choice to be taken from me?

"Dilandau, I want to speak to you."

A cold feeling comes. "No, I won't hear it!"

"I want to invite you to dinner."

I stop. Then, I laugh incredulously. I wriggle with mirth and simmer with wrath. "Dinner? What do you think I am? You don't want to invite me to dinner! You want to destroy me."

Allen remains calm, keeping his voice soothing. "No, I do want to invite you to dinner. I have a guest."

I snicker. "A guest? Who's this guest, Allen Schezar?"

"A sorcerer. The sorcerer, Douse."

I gasp and become ever so still, like a painting of Dilandau. A still-life. I didn't think he would tell the truth. I peer at Allen's face. He stares back, coolly. His weight is crushing my legs. He is turning the world topsy-turvy on me. "A sorcerer—"

"Yes. We wish to discuss something with you."

I ponder him. I think that I should make him make me Cerene again, so that when my time comes again…but I must admit that I am very tired. And what do they mean? I am curious. My thoughts go hither and yon. They wish to destroy me…but…but—oh, how tricky they are! But I can be tricky too.

"Well, Allen Schezar, this is the last thing I expected from you." I grin at him. "I never would have expected to get invited to dinner. Wouldn't you rather have _her_ instead?"

"No, it is you we must speak to. Come, Dilandau. How long has it been since you've eaten last?"

My heart pitter-patters. So they mean to get me with food? Oh, but the food…and I know, that the moment I try and fight them…take my choices from me. I answer, "I graciously accept, Allen Schezar. I will meet this sorcerer of yours, and when I am finished, I will—" I barely stop myself from revealing that I will kill him. I clear my throat and rub my cheek against my shoulder. I lower my eyelids. "Might I make myself presentable?"

"Certainly." Allen rises and lets go of me. I crawl across the floor—he keeps his eyes piercing into me—and gather up the clothes that I had taken from her room, my acceptable clothes. I dress into them, saying, "As perfectly lovely as this beautiful dress is…"

He grunts, and then he laughs. I finish dressing and we go to walk out. He stops me at the door, his eyes like rocks. "You must promise not to be violent."

I snort and smirk. "Why Allen, surely you must understand that I never would."

His blue eyes stare at me from their corners, and we proceed into the dining room. The sorcerer sits at the table. A strange sight. I smile at him and I don't believe that it is kindly at all. He is a dark man, and a pale man, with eyes set too close together, like he's been looking through microscopes and telescopes his entire life. I don't know him, but you can always tell a sorcerer because they all have this look to them, of trying to bend the world to their will. They lack emotion. Cold, calculating machines. Science themselves. I hate them!

He looks at me and rises from his seat, austerely. I smirk, place a hand on my waist, and run a finger through my hair. I have not forgotten my swagger and I intend to us it, in front of these men that would dare steal from me. I will make them realize, someday, that they cannot.

The oddity of the situation hits us all at once, because we stare at each other, eyes turning inward. I break the silence.

"My goodness! The sorcerer, Douse. My, what an honor!" I say. My tone is not flattering. Too bad. "To have such a great guest in this house. My my!"

"Sit down," Allen mutters, passing behind me.

I chuckle in my throat at him, and then we sit. If anyone peeped in through the window, they would think that we are three men having a lovely dinner-party. "It's been such a long time since I've enjoyed a social gathering," I remark, staring at the food. Food, food, I am so hungry. I will eat anything.

Allen stands at the head of the table, in between me and Douse, and serves us. A candelabrum of eight candles has been put into the center of the spread—how it must appear a constellation to an ant, or a cricket—to give us a cozy feeling. There is ham that he slices, garnished with carrots. The poor pig still has his head and an apple has been shoved within his snout. I put my hands over my mouth, stifling snorts of laughter. Allen looks at me, and serves out potatoes and soup, and grapes and olives, and green leaf things and cheese. Allen finishes serving us the food and sits.

"What an appropriate host!" I say it with irony, because he has forgotten to pour us drink. The glasses sit empty in front of us, wanting to make promises. "Yes, it has been a very long time indeed." Allen is impatient and has a strange, disbelieving look on his face, as though he cannot understand what he is doing. I pick up my fork, cut a piece of ham with it, and raise it to Allen. "A toast to the host! Yes, yes, it's been a very, very long time indeed, indeed."

Douse gusts in his throat and pats his mouth with his napkin. The cloth falls down in white folds over his fingers. There are small black spots on his fingers, where something has dripped. He speaks, drawing my attention from the droplets. "We wish to discuss just that with you."

I hmm at him, throwing my head back briefly. I toss my arm over the back of my chair and relax, smiling. "Oh! The sorcerer doesn't wish to engage in small talk first. All right then, I am tired of these games. Let's discuss."

Allen's fingernails turn white around the handle of his fork. He looks ill; then he smiles at me. The sorcerer says, "You are not a fool, of course. You are aware of what it is that we wish to speak to you of. We must all here agree that things cannot continue as they have."

I pile food into my mouth. "Yes, I agreed. I have been trying to make Allen Schezar understand that as well, but he is disinclined to."

"We wish to make things easy for you."

"Do you?" Olives disappear down my throat.

"We agree that the disgusting nature of the situation is unfathomable."

"Do you?"

Douse folds his hands together and puts them in front of his chin. "Lord Dilandau, we wish to come to an agreement. It is stressful for everyone involved."

"Yours is a hard fate," Allen mutters, shoving lettuce from one side of his plate to the other, listlessly. He refuses to look at me.

I almost throw my fork at him. I keep myself from doing it, but I relieve myself by imagining it flying across the table and piercing his eye. The liquid gushing out, the blue falling, and the sound of his screaming…. I smile and sigh, and then scowl at Allen. "Have I earned your pity now?"

Douse stares hard at me in between the candles, with his too small-close eyes. The candles throw deep shadows on his face, and on Allen's face, and I know, on my face. " Lord Dilandau, your actions have become increasingly erratic and dangerous. Allen fears that you may kill yourself."

I chew on a piece of meat thoughtfully, pretending to consider his message. I drop my view to Allen, who looks at me. When I look at him, I see a vision of him with a black, blank hole for an eye. "The truth is that he fears that if I die, Cerene will die too."

Allen does not hesitate, and drops his eyes from mine. "Yes."

"Your violent tendencies—" Douse begins.

I slam the table with my hand. The empty glassware shivers. In between mouthfuls of food falling out of my mouth, I say, "I have every right—"

Douse holds a hand up. "Yes, yes. We completely understand, Lord. We would be too, I imagine. But the increasingly violent nature of your actions can no longer be tolerated."

"What were you trying to do in the kitchen, Dilandau?" Allen asks, softly.

I put my chin in my hand lazily and tilt my face towards him. I spear food with my fork until I cannot put anymore on, and shove it into my mouth. "I was hungry."

They look doubtful. Douse lowers his eyelids and Allen's face goes blank. Douse places the fingers of his hands together and speaks. "We can do this in either of two ways, Lord. We can have you—Cerene, I should say—kept in constant company, so that the moment the fate is altered towards you, there will be someone there to immediately alter the fate back towards Cerene. By this, you will not have a single moment in which to exist. Of course, this is by no means fair to you."

I bite the insides of my cheeks and quiver with rage. I hold my breath, forget to breathe, and then remember, and let the air out slowly through my nostrils. Allen looks sympathetic. I wish to kill him. Kill him, because I know that this is what they want to do to me.

"Or," Douse continues, swirling his food around and around in tight circles, "we can compromise. We can allow you to remain, until the fate alters towards Cerene naturally. We will allow these things to their natural course, provided, of course, that you stop these foolish acts of violence and these foolish attempts at escape. Your intent to burn down the house—"

I leap from my seat, tossing my fork at his face. It arches down at the table and skitters across it, coming to rest against the candelabrum in the center. The flames wiggle and come to a standstill. Douse and Allen stare at the fork, composed, not moving. My chest heaves, my heart is full in my mouth, wanting to come out. I step away and eye the doorways. I wonder if I can escape before they call for First Fate. I nearly weep, for I know that I cannot.

"It is not difficult to imagine where your thoughts will turn, Dilandau," Allen murmurs. He glares at the fork. "We watched you enter the kitchen and I watched you there. You—"

"Just shut up, Allen Schezar!" I snarl.

Douse looks up. "It is these actions," he nods towards the fork, "that will force us to take desperate measures. You are dangerous. If you could only control yourself…."

I put my hands over my ears. I don't want to hear them call for Cerene.

"Dilandau." Allen's voice is muffled. "Sit back down. We can discuss this like rational individuals. If you do not react rationally, then we may resort to the first option. You will not have a single moment—"

"Shut up, shut up!" I throw myself back in my seat. I place my elbows on the table and bend my head in my hands. My shoulders shake. My whole body shakes with helpless grief. I am powerless here. I breathe. No, not quite powerless. "You just wish to destroy me."

"No, Lord Dilandau. We would rather not."

"It is too cruel," Allen says. I drop my hands and look at him, hatefully. I shove my knuckles into my mouth and suck on them. I want to be, I want to be.

They level their eyes on me. Douse's are small and black, and Allen's are large and blue. They have the same expression. "Which will it be, Lord?" Douse asks.

I don't want to say it. I don't want to say. I screw my face and grab handfuls of my hair. It would have been better if I have never been at all. But then…it is better this way, I guess. The edges of my vision blur and the glow of the candles shine through my tears brightly. I answer:

"The second, of course. Of course, of course."

They smile. Ah, they all smile now. We have reached a compromise, without the use of force—not really a compromise at all, is it? And we are all happy now. And I smile at them too.

"Let us drink to the occasion. Let us celebrate!" Douse exclaims, tapping his empty glass. Allen sits motionless a moment, and then rises and fetches a bottle from the kitchen. While he is gone, Douse and I stare at each other, grinning like fools, like madmen. I am calm and happy, I am indeed.

Allen comes back, carrying a clear bottle. He takes our glasses and pours out a heavy liquid into them. It looks like oil, like honeyed oil. He gives Douse his glass and turns to me, holding out my portion. He looks at me with poise, waiting patiently. Ah, Allen is such a trickster. Douse stares boldly at me. I stare at the glass, with my hands in my lap. I stare hard at the liquid inside.

And for a moment, the oil appears as silver water, and as clean and as fresh. The light glitters through it and makes the thing to glisten, reflecting off the hills and valleys of the indentations of the glass. Bubbles slip down like pearls. Pearly tears. And I think of how it may be better this way. The end of this struggle, this struggle to be…if I weren't anymore…I am so tired.

I want to be! They can't take it from me!

I put my hand out and slip my fingers around the glass. I blink. It doesn't look like water anymore. Just a trick of the light. The oil is oil again. And I take the glass, pulling it gently away from Allen. He smiles at me—oh, but I see the gleam of deception in his eyes!—and I smile back, as though we were two old friends instead of enemies. I consider and ponder the liquid, letting it slosh against the sides. Allen and Douse keep their eyes peeled on me, watching my every movement. The oil ripples up and down, ripples sliding over each other. Such a pretty glass of death.

We raise our glasses for a brief toast and put them to our mouths. I notice, from the corner of my eye, how they let the liquid fall against their lips but do not open their mouths. I open wide my mouth and pour the oil down my throat—all of it. I smirk. Immediately, everything begins to fade away, away into night. It is the pacification. The glass slips from my fingers and I fall back against the chair, a numbness spreading throughout me. The glass shatters against the floor. I hear someone open a door somewhere and I hear an almost silent, low-toned hmm of a machine.

Douse comes back in, bends over and blows the candles out. There are gentle hands on my wrists, lifting them up, tenderly. Everything grows dark.

I feel the alteration coming; I feel the small, dark place approaching; and then, the nothingness. The nothing that is so nothing where I know nothing about nothing. But I do not fear, because there is always more than one fate. I am the greatest trickster of all. And the smile stays on my lips, even as fate is changing.

_**AN: **Questions, comments, concerns? Feel free to ask. I'll do my best to answer anything. Thanks._


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